Pray for the Dying

Ten

‘I could get to like this,’ Aileen said. ‘Bob’s garden in Gullane is nice too, but it overlooks the beach. He refuses to plant trees to give it a bit of privacy; says he likes the view.’ She picked up her glass from the wrought-iron table. ‘Well he’s bloody welcome to it!’

Don’t get to like it too much, Joey Morocco thought. He had been on the astonished side of surprised when Aileen had called him the night before, almost raving about being imprisoned by her husband and seeking sanctuary for a day or two, but they had enjoyed regular liaisons a few years before, and the occasional fling since.

Their history together had been enough to overcome his caution about taking another man’s wife under his roof, even when the man was as formidable as Bob Skinner was said to be.

Nonetheless, when she had defined their renewed relationship, ‘just fun, convenient uncomplicated nookie, no more than that’, he had been relieved. He was bound for Los Angeles in a few days, for the film project that was going to make him, he knew, and the last thing he wanted was a heavy-duty woman in Scotland with her claws in him.

‘Are you sure that’s really what you want?’ he asked. ‘To end your marriage?’

‘Bloody certain,’ she replied. ‘I don’t actually know what drew me to him in the first place.’ She grinned. ‘No, that’s not true, I do. I wanted to find out if he matched up to the waves he was giving out. Very few do, in my limited experience.’

‘Did he?’

‘At first, yes. Then I made the mistake of marrying him. It all got mediocre after that, but I suppose that’s life. I’ll learn from it, though; once is enough.’

He smiled.

‘And you’re relieved to hear that, I know,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, Joey. My career is all planned out, and it doesn’t take me within six thousand miles of where you’re going.’ She looked around the suntrap garden once more. ‘But this is nice. I like it here; it suits me. I’m guessing that when you go to the US, you won’t be back here very often, so if you need a tenant, let me know.’

‘I will,’ he promised. ‘The way my commitments are, I won’t be back for at least a year, so that might work. You’d be a house-sitter, though, not a tenant.’

‘No,’ she declared. ‘It would have to be formal. I couldn’t be seen as your bidey-in, even though you were never here.’

He shrugged. ‘Whatever,’ he murmured, hoping secretly that it would all be forgotten by the next morning. ‘Want another drink?’ he asked.

Aileen pressed her glass to her chest. ‘No, I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I’m not a big afternoon drinker. . or evening, come to that. You’ve seen me in action before. You know I can’t handle it.’

‘True,’ he conceded. ‘If you’re sure. . I think I’ll get another beer, if you don’t mind.’

‘Not a bit.’

He wandered back into the kitchen, and took another Rolling Rock from the fridge. He had just uncapped it when the phone rang. He frowned, irked by the interruption, wondering which of the few people with access to his unlisted number had a need to call it on a bloody Sunday, when they all knew it was the day he liked to keep to himself.

‘Yes,’ he barked, not choosing to hide his impatience.

‘Is that Joey Morocco?’ a female voice asked.

‘Depends who this is.’

‘My name’s Marguerite Hatton. I’m on the political staff of the Daily News.’

‘And I’m a bloody actor, so why are you calling me?’ Hatton, Hatton; the name was fresh in his mind. Of course, the woman from the press conference, she who had tried to give Aileen’s husband a hard time, and had her arse well kicked.

‘I’m trying to locate Aileen de Marco,’ she replied. ‘I’d like to talk to her about her ordeal last night and how relieved she feels that the killer got the wrong woman.’

‘So?’ he challenged. ‘Why are you calling me?’

‘You’re quoted as saying, last night as you left the concert hall, that you’re a friend of hers,’ she explained. ‘I’m calling around everyone; the Labour Party, Glasgow councillors, anyone who might know her, actually, but she seems to have disappeared. Do you have any idea where she might be?’

‘Why should I? And if I did, do you really think that I’d betray her by setting you on her? If you want to find her, ask her husband, why don’t you?’

‘I rather think not,’ Hatton drawled. ‘Can you tell me about your relationship with Ms de Marco, Mr Morocco?’

‘No,’ he snorted. ‘Why the hell should I do that?’

‘But you did say you’re a friend of hers.’

‘Yes. So what? Aileen has many friends. She’s Glasgow’s leading lady. Ask a real journalist and they’ll tell you that.’

‘Oh, but I’m a real journalist, Mr Morocco,’ she told him. ‘Be in no doubt about that. How long have you known Ms de Marco?’

‘For a few years.’

‘How close are you?’

‘We are friends, okay? Is there any part of that you don’t understand?’

‘What’s the nature of your friendship?’

‘Private. Now please piss off.’

‘I don’t think so.’

He felt himself boil over. ‘Listen, hen,’ he shouted, lapsing into Glaswegian in his anger, ‘you want to talk to me, you go through my agent or my publicist. By the way, both of those are owed favours by your editor, so don’t you be making me have them called in.’

‘He owes me a few as well, Joey,’ she countered. ‘I keep bringing him exclusives, you see. When did you last see Ms de Marco?’

‘Fuck off!’ he snapped and slammed the phone back into its cradle.

‘You’ve been a while,’ Aileen said, as he rejoined her.

‘I had a nuisance call,’ he replied.

‘There’s a number you can call that stops you getting those.’

‘It doesn’t always work. But hopefully that one’s gone away to bother somebody else.’